MN Mountain Man: A Trout Hunting Machine

It was a great stroke of luck that I found the Driftless Trout Anglers forums earlier this year.  One of the regulars there is a guy with ties to Montana: MN Mountain Man, aka Clayton.  He moved from the Kalispell/Whitefish area and now pounds the banks of the Driftless Area's cold water creeks.  He runs a couple of blogs/sites:

• MN Driftless Fly Fishing -Fish Tales
• Whitewater Valley Flies - Hand built rods and hand tied flies for sale

 After exchanging messages over the summer, we were finally able to sync schedules and meet up for some angling the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend.  We met early and I followed him to a stretch of water he'd gotten permission to access.

As we geared up, it was impossible not to notice that he's ready to fish at a moment's notice. No waders, no boots, no vest.  He swapped shoes, grabbed a rod, and maybe had a small sling pack for his tackle.  Lean, mean, optimized, and ready to go.  Then there's me... classic hare and tortoise.

He's also a very focused angler.  He moves efficiently upstream, methodically working the water.  He says that most days, he fishes deep.  I don't think he changed flies at all during our morning trek upstream.  And why should he when fish after fish take what he's selling?

This man is zeroed-in on catching fish, and knows how to bring in the big ones.  Take this one for example:

This was one of the fattest fish I've ever seen.  I could just barely get my hands all the way around the back and belly.  If you look at photos on his blog, this looks like a normal everyday ho-hum fish for him.  It's a good thing he lives close to a collection of great trout streams, because he's got a stressful job.  To blow off steam, he hits the water often, ties flies, and builds custom rods.

It was a great opportunity to fish with Clayton.  He didn't laugh at me when I made one of my signature Parkinson's Moves (falling down the bank) and wasn't in a hurry.  Like fishing with Eddie, I had the opportunity to learn some great stuff just watching him fish.  In fact, I used some of his techniques to extract a few browns from a tough spot the next day.  Thanks, Clayton!

Great morning with great weather.  Great angler and great company.  I hope we can do it again soon, and not just for the obvious reason:

Fiberglass Fishing Cures Many Ills

Last Thursday 9/1, we fled life in central Minnesota to reestablish sanity near a trout stream in southeastern Minnesota.  We went back to the Minnesota Driftless.  After parking the Mobile Hotel® and completing a few chores, I grabbed the 'glass and headed for the creek.  I reached for Mellow Yellow (4 wt Redington Butter Stick) without even thinking and tied on my favorite low-light dry fly: a size 14 parachute Adams.  Ten minutes later I brought a 10"-11" brown trout into my net, right behind campsite #15.  I thanked the creek as the fish swam from my hand, and headed back to the Mobile Hotel® for s'mores and bourbon.  All of life's problems had faded, if only for an hour or two.

Friday saw 3 short outings within the vicinity of the campground.  Recent flooding has very much altered the character of the creek.  I couldn't even scare trout out of my most productive runs and holes from May and June.  They were devoid of macroscopic life.  After much experimentation with dry fly refusals at the Bottomless Pool, I got a few takers on a size 18 red lightning bug.  Wait, there was one impressive swipe at a hopper on a random toss to he head of the Pool, but only one.  Large fish don't get large by being stupid.

Saturday was a graphite day and will be discussed at another time.

Sunday morning, I headed out with two 'glass rods in hand (hands?): Mellow Yellow rigged for little dry flies, and Monday rigged with indicator, weights, and two nymphs.  With no surface action to be had, the 6 wt Epic saved the day, fooling several browns deep in the Bottomless Pool with lightning bugs and zebra midges.  Color mattered.

The fiberglass felt good.  Slow down, you're casting too fast.  You need to make the weekend last... After all, it's both physical therapy and psychotherapy.  I should totally bill myself $250 an hour.

Photo by Eddie Rivard

#glassisnotdead #feelingroovy

Catches and Misses

"Gotcha!" I yelled to nobody.  As far as I knew, there wasn't another human within a quarter mile or so.  This can only mean one thing:  I've started talking to trout.  This particular one was connected to the other end of my fishing line.  I missed him (or her) a couple of times before I finally set the hook with decent timing.  The fish ran back at me after I pulled it away from the willow where I'm sure it wanted to hide.  My line went slack because I wasn't fast enough, so I was sure it had self-released when the tension was lost in the line.  In short order, the eight-inch brook trout was in hand and released.  Father's Day was shaping up nicely.  Much better, in fact, than the previous two days, where I'd only managed one little brown each day.  Those were short sessions with several brief hookups, but only one tally mark each day.  No worries.  We anglers can always formulate rationalization and tales of the ones that got away.  I don't mind them getting close and then escaping.  I prefer to identify the species, but I'm in it for the supplemental dopamine.

Driftless Thinking

I'm watching the sun climb reluctantly out of bed from an airport window in Syracuse, New York.  My mind is wandering elsewhere.  I dutifully checked my work email when I got through security and settled in with coffee and donuts (thank you, Dunkin'!)  Nothing I can do there, so I engage in one of my favorite pastimes: rereading some of my recent blog entries.  Perhaps an exercise in narcissism, but I enjoy reliving the moments.  If Delta Airlines do their thing correctly, I should be back in southern Minnesota in 7 hours, headed for one more weekend in the Mobile Hotel®.

Gimme the creek, boys, and free my soul....
Photo credit: Eddie Rivard

A bit more than two years ago, Mrs. FA and I made one of the best decisions of our lives when we bought the RV and started staying regularly at Maple Springs Campground near Forestville State Park.  We're on the western edge of the Driftless Complex that spans southeastern Minnesota, northeastern Iowa, and southwestern Wisconsin.  Small creeks and cold waters keep the trout alive.  I miss Montana, but this place has filled the void.

I've been fishing a couple of these creeks on and off for two years.  It took me this long to find some brook trout, and I couldn't be happier about it.  The knowledge that I have abundant "creek time" coming has kept me motivated and productive this week.  And what I want more than anything this weekend is for my wife to catch a fish.  We tried last weekend, and I'm pretty happy about that.  She did well, but they weren't biting what we were offering in the stretched moments of twilight.  We had fun.  I remember her laughing as I tried diligently to thread some 5X tippet through the eye of a size 18 eye of a caddis fly.  Between the aging eyes and the mild Parkinson's tremor, it was mildly slapstick.  I'm glad we can both laugh.  Yes, it IS funny, and we both know it.

On the Missouri in 2012
Let 'em run!

I can't wait to see another catch-induced smile on her face.  You know, like the kind there was in April.

I'm flying over Lake Huron right now, and will be passing over Lake Michigan in less that 30 minutes.  Maybe I'll try to talk her into using her Sage Grace this weekend.  I might just carry another rod alongside my new Epic 686, just to get a chance to feel the difference side-by-side.  And I should have her grab the landing net before she leaves the house.

I'm ready to get my feet wet.  "Have fun storming the castle!"

Almost Not Incompetent

It's Friday night at the campground, and a little sadness has entered my thoughts.  Not because I'm sipping bourbon and nibbling on Hershey's chocolate and graham crackers.  Certainly not because we got here Thursday night, allowing me to fish this morning.  And not even because it's raining and there's no campfire tonight.  I remembered that Fathers Day Weekend is when we haul the Mobile Hotel® back home.  Our run of pre-summer camping and fishing weekends will soon draw to a close.

Ah, well, the time has been good.  How good?  The first weekend down here in early May left me with a skunk stripe.  This morning was different.  I spent about three hours on the water and managed to lose count of how many brown trout I caught.  I paid close attention to the brookie count (four!) but lost track of the other count after 4 or 5.  Many were missed and many self-released from the barbless flies.  For a brief time, I actually felt as if I knew what I was doing, especially when I managed to catch 3 fish that I missed the first or second times.

Could've been luck, or the law of averages catching up with me.  And I have many bad habits to correct.  But you should have seen those little brook trout.

Before Breakfast

Source: gadgetreview.com

Wha...?  Oh.  Again?

Looks like I made it through another night.  Fingers fumble with the buzzing iPhone, trying to restore silence.  Establish context through mental cobwebs: daylight, 5:30 A.M., I'm in the forward bed of the camper Mobile Hotel®.  Conclusion: I made plans to fish this morning.  Re-evaluating the plan: struggling to be awake, sore, stiff.

I don't wanna get up.

Much easier to just drop the eyelids and put the mind back in neutral.

Don't be an idiot.  Coffee fixes many morning ills. Sit up and scoot!  Trout don't just catch themselves.

Yes, Master.  As you wish.  You're a real &$$#@!%, you know?

I slide my feet over the side of the bed and prop my self up.  Now comes the fun part.  It's a smaller fifth-wheel RV, so there isn't room to stand beside the bed.  I must scoot myself to the foot of the bed in order to stand and wobble for balance.  It's a three-foot chasm of struggle.  Parkinson's Disease somehow robs me of both strength and multi-limb coordination in the wee hours of daylight.  I push, lift, scoot, twist, push.  How the hell did I gain 40 pounds overnight?  Never mind.  Your feet are on the floor and you didn't fall down.  Congrats.  Where are my meds?

Come Monday...

Luckily, the Internet service at our campground was misbehaving most of the weekend.  Fine with me.  But, now that I'm back in the chair for another four days of punishment work, some of the Little Voices® won't let me focus until I toss something into the blog.

The fishing was great on Saturday.  I spent a few hours back at the stretch where Eddie and I fished a couple of weekends ago.  A couple of trout did me the favor of self-releasing when pulled in close, which is surprisingly easy with crushed barbs.  Two more came to hand, including another MN Driftless brook trout.  I had chef duty at noon, so I hiked back to the vehicle, cringing as I tip-toed though a large patch of blooming wild parsnip.  Danger, Will Robinson, danger.

Brats and hot dogs were grilled and consumed, then a 90-second walk down the creek to the "dog leg" hole.  A few casts, a nine inch brown, and a satisfied stroll back to the Mobile Hotel®.  Two waves of thunder and rain turned the nearly-clear creek waters into chocolate milk.  No worries.  I'm pleased as punch that my new toy angling tool was properly "broke in" on its first outing.

Butter Side Up - Preview

It's no secret that I've finally gotten around to playing with my Redington Butter Stick here in the Minnesota Driftless Area.  I've been teasing that I'd write more about it soon, because I had actually planned to do so by now.  Truth is, I'm still learning NOT to cast this fiberglass rod like a graphite stick.  I even resorted to some lawn casting at the campground last Saturday afternoon before I trekked downstream past sundown.  I need one more weekend with my mellow, yellow friend before I start telling stories about it.

One quick tale:  While I was lawn casting out in front of the Mobile Hotel®, our campsite neighbor popped up from his chair and watched me for a few casts.  He and his wife, both retired, recently decided to take up fly angling.  He watched me make several casts and then asked, "How do you get it to unroll like that at the end?"  I was simultaneously pleased and horrified... Talk about the blind leading the blind!

Let's Get Happy, Part II - Fishing with The Driftless Legend

This is part II.  Do yourself a favor and quickly visit Part I if you haven't seen it.  No fair just jumping into the middle...

I sent Eddie a message early last week, and it turned out he was going to be taking a few days to go fishing before he gets busy again.  He was in the Wisconsin Driftless Area on Friday, fishing with someone else around Viroqua.  We had a quick chat on the phone Friday afternoon before I disappeared from the cell grid into the valley that protects our favorite campground from bothersome cell phone signals.  The battle plan: Eddie would arrive at the Mobile Hotel® at 6 AM, and we'd find something nearby.

Eddie looks to be former military but claims not to be. (I suspect CIA...) Regardless, he arrived at the campground with military precision and found me sipping a cup of coffee outside.  There was nothing moving around us, so we quietly tossed my gear into his rig and tiptoed up the hill out of campground before any Russian spies became aware of our covert mission.

Goodbye Skunk Stripe!  Getting Happy Early.
Photo by Eddie Rivard - Click any photo to enlarge

We made a flyby of a couple of nearby spots, quickly eliminating one I was familiar with.  Two vehicles parked already at 6:15!  We circled back to the first candidate and geared up.  I put the 4 weight Redington Butter Stick together and tried tossing one of Eddie's streamers for a few minutes... Let's just say I won't be using this baby for much streamer work.  It quickly became apparent that Eddie has plenty of skill and technique.  Many times throughout the morning I found myself ignoring my drift in favor of watching him cast.

After getting skunked the previous weekend, Lady Luck took pity on me and tossed me a double bonus:  1) First fish of the day, and 2) MY FIRST DRIFTLESS BROOKIE!!!

A nice, fat little Minnesota Driftless brook trout.
Photo by Eddie Rivard

Brook trout were (are?) native to the Minnesota Driftless Area, but populations are small and isolated (as far as I know) in comparison to the brown trout that now thrive in most of these spring fed creeks.  I have read that the Minnesota DNR have stocked brookies into the "headwater" springs of this river, which makes a 1.5 mile journey underground after mostly sinking and running through a cave.  It emerges as an ideal, cool trout stream where the State is attempting to reestablish brook trout populations.  I grew up chasing brookies in the Wind River and Big Horn mountain ranges in Wyoming.  I consider it a privilege to finally catch one from its native range.

Eddie soon evened the count.  He pulled a nice brown out of the next hole upstream.  That fish was featured previously in Part I.

Shortly after that, he pulled ahead for good.  I didn't mind.  I was still pretty darn happy about that little brookie.

We chatted about backgrounds and adventures as we hiked or watched each other fish.  Seemed like we took turns re-rigging most of the time, so we easily alternated casting time as we moved upstream.  I enjoyed watching him pull fish out of spots that surprised me.

Eddie out in front

Beware the dark side

A craftsman at work, but apparently not happy with this one?

Not too much time later, I hooked up again in a deeper hole.  It definitely felt bigger, but that could have just been the 7'6" fiberglass Butter Stick passing along the experience.  I was happy to see the largest trout I've caught so far in my 2 years of fishing the Minnesota Driftless.

My best MN trout so far
Photo by Eddie Rivard

Eddie did me the honor of formally measuring.  A solid 13 inches, and a trophy in my eyes.

See Eddie.  See Eddie hunt.  Does he look Happy?

Eddie has a Driftless soul.  Watching him, I get the feeling he's part of the ecosystem here.  He admires every little detail around him, from the 60-foot limestone cliffs towering above us to the wildflowers on the banks.  I've admired his photographic work since I started reading his blog last year.  He took some great shots of me that I look forward to dropping into random posts down the road.

Eventually, we got hungry and retreated to the Mobile Hotel® for some lunch.  I grilled up some fresh Brats and a few hot dogs.  Everything settled, and then the Eddie wit reappeared: as I was emptying my gear from his rig, he suggested that I could leave the Butter Stick exactly where it was.  He'd used it for a few minutes and I guess he liked it a little.

Huge thanks going out for Eddie for putting up with me for a few hours.  I had a great time shadowing the William Wallace of Driftless fly angling ;)  (see this blog post.)

I was happy, too.  But I forgot to ask for an autographed sticker before he drove off into the sunset.

Let's Get Happy, Part I - Guess Who?

If you haven't guessed by the title, then perhaps you'll recognize this classic pose from his blog:

How do you think this man feels right now?
Click any photo to enlarge

Yes, folks, I was privileged to spend Saturday morning fishing alongside Eddie Rivard, of the famed and beloved Eddie Rivard Fly Fishing blog.  And, true to all of the marketing hype, he is definitely an upbeat, happy guy.  And a fine angler.  Though I have to admit I was slightly disappointed that he didn't arrive wearing a fedora hat, well-pressed white button down shirt and carrying a Winston fly rod (see here for an explanation on that.)

I'm a bit pressed for time this morning.  I'm scheduled to cook brunch here at the Mobile Hotel®, so I have a date with my Camp Chef stove and giant cast iron griddle.  Yet, I couldn't leave all 3 of you wondering who showed up and what happened Saturday morning.  Eddie caught many fish, I caught a couple.  Later I'll explain how it was a record day for me on a Minnesota Driftless Area stream.

Ugg.  That grin could not be ANY cheesier, unless we were in Wisconsin...

Proceed to Part II for more photos and the rest of the story.

Oracular Fire

Friday night back at the campground.  A fullish moon creates pockets of shadow and glow.  I'm holding my feet a little closer to the fire ring while I type on my iPad and sip a New Belgium Fat Tire.

Tomorrow is an early start.  No lazy, unmotivated lingering.  Another Driftless angler has agreed to meet and fish together.  I've been  looking forward to this for a while. 

Who is this mystery guest? 

What will tomorrow bring?

Ask the campfire.

A Little Sweetness

Saturday

Two more logs go into the fire pit, stirring the orange coals and swirling smoke.  Embers become flame.  I take a sip of beer from a bottle while pondering the pack of graham crackers and pair of Hershey bars next to my chair.  My day has come down to this, next to a bubbling brook.

My daughter and I geared up to go fishing this morning, not late in the morning but certainly not early.  Her new waders fit well, along with boots borrowed from her Mother.  I tie a nymph for her and dry fly for me.  An hour later, her hands are freezing, even after I held them in mine to warm them, trying to extend our time on the water a few more minutes.  In between, we stumble, laugh, pause, and she hikes through the creek.  She's discovered a new freedom in waders and boots.  She's also learning new restrictions from overhead branches and trees lining both banks.  It's 38 F, and she's given me more than enough to to still my waters.

After a break just long enough to actually enjoy a cup of coffee and microscopic chocolate frosted doughnuts, I grab both rods and head downstream from our campground, abandoning the heated comfort of the Mobile Hotel® yet again.    I can't resist doing some compare-and-contrast casting.  I started out giving "lessons" on my 7' St. Croix Imperial 3 weight rod a couple of hours ago.  The world spun backward when I started casting a Redington Butter Stick.  This 7'6" rod in 4 weight makes my Imperial feel cold and uncommunicative.  The fiberglass is alive.

My last two logs go into the fire for some welcome heat.  It's 45 F, and I'm wishing I'd brought the bourbon.  This just isn't a beer night.  The Hershey wrapper opens because I can't resist the temptation another minute.  No messy marshmallow roasting tonight.  The rest of the family is hiding from the gray twilight chill.  Just me, the fire, graham crackers, and chocolate.

My neck and shoulders remind me how I arrived at this night.  A little more than two years ago, Parkinson's Disease backed me into the proverbial corner and I responded with whimper: I just want to go fishing.

I got the stink-eye when I grabbed a pack of graham crackers and TWO Hershey bars for my sunset snack.  Totally worth it.

Flyfishing Below Freezing

I've often looked at photos of folks steelhead fishing in "cold" weather.  They're usually standing under overcast skies, soaked with rain, and generally looking chilled.  Having never fished for steelhead (yet!), I've often wondered if it would be worth it, and how I'd hold up to the colder temps, versus the warm summer days I'm usually fishing.

A window opened for me to finally try winter flyfishing this past weekend.  The 2.5 kids and their mom all had plans on Saturday.  The daily highs in most of Minnesota had ranged from below zero (Fahrenheit) to the mid-teens for most of Januray.  They'd finally break into the 20's F on Saturday.  "Warm enough to scratch the itch," I said to myself, thinking back to how jealous I was of fisherfolk I'd seen on the Missouri River in Montana the previous weekend.

In a true expression of my ambition, I overslept an hour Saturday morning.  Coffee was brewed, gear tossed into the all-wheel drive SUV, and I made the 3 hour drive from my home in central Minnesota to the southeastern "Driftless Region."  A quick stop in Chatfield, then a short drive to Trout Run Creek.  Another SUV was already parked, but the only thing moving was the water.  I'd been concerned about ice, given the somewhat prolonged period of temperatures near zero F.  Yet I found this spring-fed creek with only a little "shelf-ice" on each side in most places.  Definitely fishable, and not too dangerous.

Getting Back Into Rhythm

 

Just got back from a quick, non-fishing weekend trip to Montana.  Spent the night near Craig and had dinner with Joe and Lindsay Bloomquist of the Missouri River Lodge.  My wonderful wife booked me a spring trip in mid-April, hoping for a repeat of last year's April awesomeness!  Got really confused (and slightly jealous) seeing 15-20 humans compressed into very close proximity on one tiny stretch of the Missouri River just north of Craig.  Almost nobody anywhere else on the Mo'.  Huh?

Visited Blackfoot River Outfitters in Missoula, as my wife insisted I carry a wading staff now.  She's wise.  BRO is having their spring sale March 5th.  20% off a Helios 2 is damn temping, especially after I got to use one in 6 weight on the Big Horn River this past September.

Time to start writing again, and maybe consider a winter trip down to some little creeks in the Driftless down in SE MN.  I might wait until the daily high temperatures get back up into the 20's.

More soon.  We hope.

Gravity

Shall we wax metaphorical for a moment?  If the future is like the sun, then I can confidently state that I'm living under a cloud layer.  Occasionally, a brilliant shaft of light penetrates the gloom,  but cold half-tones and thunderbolts are my future forecast.  Call it a low spot, but I seem to have given up most of my hope for the future.  The alluring radiance of the future has become obscured by the fog of a progressive, degenerative neurological disease with no cure.  As Parkinson's Disease gradually slows me down  physically and mentally, many of the things I used to dream of no longer make much sense.  So what does make sense?  I tell myself that I should hold tight to something I'm passionate about, pursue it with as much energy as I can spare.  So why fishing, and why fly fishing for trout?

We have met the Enemy, and they are Us

The fact that I'm writing again means that I'm suffering from a serious affliction.  Sadly, it affects far too many people, especially anglers who've sat through a long winter.  We suffer from an insidious illness that's been festering in the cold weather: hope.

I'm hoping for time on a cold, clear stream in the near future, in pursuit of trout.  I hope for many more such visits this spring, summer, and fall.  I have a brand new St Croix 3-weight fly rod that whispers to me at night like the One Ring:  The Precious wants to return to The Master.  (Yeah, I know I'm stretching the metaphor.)  Once I figure out how to have a few successful fly angling sessions in Southeastern Minnesota's "driftless region," I hope to bring my kids and wife along to share the experience with them.  We all have decent fly fishing outfits now, and I truly mean to take the time to fish while I can, before the parts of my brain that are in decay make it too difficult to fish anymore.  I will fish with my kids, teach them what I can, and demonstrate the patience and love my father showed to my 3 brothers and me.  With any luck, my wife will want to come along and join in the fun from time to time.  Someday, fishing "by proxy" through them may be the only fishing I can do.

I plan to write, as well.  I need to remind myself that perfection is the enemy of "good enough."  I don't need to write several pages at a time that might be worthy of publication in Field and Stream.  I just need to release the words, let them swim away, out into the wild.  (Wow.  I think I just make myself sick, a little...)  And I apparently need to suppress my inner critic.  Writing has always been a laborious and painful process for me, as I imagine it is for many/most writers.  I have friends who can produce long, elegant blog postings with a mere wave of their pinky finger.  I can't let admiration and envy be a barrier.  Just like I can't burn the candle at both ends for work anymore.

An example of a site I recently discovered and admire: Silk Lines and Paper Hulls.  The author, Gary Thompson, lives around Sheridan, Wyoming, and I'm seriously envious of him.  I miss Wyoming, even more so since I finally fished the tiny Tongue River on top of the Big Horn Mountains near Sheridan this past summer.  Gary also writes very well.  His most recent posting, Empty Pockets, talks of a day of settlement, looking back on the previous year and realizing you fell short of your expectations of yourself, letting far too many little things get in the way of living.  My time on the Tongue River, last summer, one short afternoon where I reeled in that gorgeous cutthroat trout and ran nose-to-snout with a young moose, was my one trout outing for the whole year.  My settlement shows a lot of red in the ledger.

I have stories I wish to tell.  Telling them in imperfect fragments will get results.  And I plan to make more fish stories this year.  Please, Inner Critic, do shut the hell up and stop telling me that this whole thing reads like a New Year's Resolution.  Perhaps a glass of Pinot Noir is in order...

Welcome aboard.  Enjoy the ride.

--Me and the Little Voices